His Unwanted Wife: The Secret Pregnancy

"Two lines."

Harlow Miller pressed her thumb against the plastic edge of the test strip until her nail turned white. The fluorescent lighting of the penthouse master bathroom glared off the polished marble vanity, reflecting her pale face and the faint, disbelieving curve of her lips.

Her stomach fluttered. For three years of their quiet, strictly confidential marriage, this was the moment she had waited for.

She took a slow breath. She slipped the positive‑result test strip and the printed ultrasound requisition form from her private‑clinic appointment into the zipped inner pocket of her leather bag, and walked into the walk‑in closet. From the mahogany racks, she selected a charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit, matching it with the silk tie, a birthday gift she'd bought for her husband Damond Montgomery the previous year.

Her phone vibrated on the island counter. The flight tracker showed the Montgomery Group private jet touching down at Teterboro Airport in less than two hours.

Harlow pulled on her trench coat and stepped out into the hallway. A gust of damp autumn air leaked through the high penthouse corridor. Instinctively, she rested a palm flat against her lower stomach as the private elevator doors slid shut.

Down in the dim underground garage, she climbed into the back of the black Maybach.

"Teterboro Airport," she told the driver. "VIP terminal."

Rain began to smear across the tinted glass as the car crossed the river. Neon signs blurred into streaks of red and yellow. Harlow turned her engagement ring around her finger, rehearsing the words she would say. She would wait until they reached home. She would hand him the box after dinner.

Thirty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the private terminal gate. Harlow stepped out into the drizzle, declining the driver's umbrella, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the private lounge.

The air conditioning inside was set low. She shivered, walking straight to the panoramic windows that overlooked the tarmac. Outside, a Gulfstream G650 bearing the Montgomery crest taxied to a halt under the floodlights.

The mobile staircase locked into place. Harlow's pulse kicked up. She bypassed the security cordon and walked toward the arrival ramp.

The cabin door swung open. A pair of bodyguards in dark suits stepped out first, followed by Arthur Hayes, Damond's chief executive assistant.

There was no sign of the tall, broad-shouldered man she was waiting for.

Arthur froze the moment he spotted her. A flicker of panic crossed his features before he quickly smoothed it away and hurried forward to block her line of sight.

"Mrs. Montgomery," Arthur said, his voice stiff. "You shouldn't have come out in this weather."

Harlow looked past his shoulder at the empty doorway of the plane. "Where is Damond? His itinerary said he was on this flight."

"Mr. Montgomery had a sudden change of schedule," Arthur said, swallowing hard. "He transferred to a private helicopter in Boston. He went straight into the city."

A cold knot formed in Harlow's chest. Without a word, she pulled her phone from her coat and dialed Damond's private line.

The line rang four times. Just as it was about to go to voicemail, the call connected. In the background, the soft, melancholy notes of a live violin echoed over the clink of fine china.

"Damond?" Harlow's fingers tightened around the phone.

"I'm sorry, Damond can't come to the phone right now."

The voice on the other end was smooth, low, and laced with an easy, intimate amusement.

Harlow stopped breathing. The noise of the airport hangar seemed to drop away entirely.

"Who is this?" she asked, her fingernails biting deep into her palm.

"It's Katelyn," the woman replied with a soft laugh. "You must be Harlow, his assistant. Damond told me to let you know he won't be coming back to the apartment tonight. You don't need to wait up."

Katelyn Klein.

The name hit Harlow like a physical blow to the sternum. The Hollywood starlet. The woman Damond had kept in his private memories for ten years.

Harlow could not force another word past her throat. She ended the call, her stomach instantly heaving with a violent wave of nausea. She shoved past Arthur and bolted for the nearest restroom.

She gripped the edges of the white ceramic sink, dry-heaving until her eyes watered. In the mirror, her face looked hollow, stripped of color. She turned the faucet on high and splashed freezing water over her cheeks and neck.

The icy water dripped down her chin. Harlow stood upright, smoothed her damp hair, and stepped out into the corridor.

Arthur was still waiting near the exit, his posture rigid. "Ma'am, let me have the car take you-"

"I have my own driver," Harlow cut him off, her tone flat and distant. "Have a good night, Arthur."

She walked back to the Maybach through the pouring rain. During the drive back across the city, she kept her hand pressed firmly against her stomach, the plastic test strip in her purse feeling like a cruel, silent joke.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. Darkness swallowed her as she stepped inside. No lights were on. No warmth lingered in the foyer.

Harlow hung her wet coat by the door, poured a glass of room-temperature water at the kitchen island, and looked down at the pair of men's leather slippers sitting untouched by the entrance.

The silence of the empty apartment settled over her skin like ice.

The morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, burning against Harlow's eyes. She had not slept.

At seven in the morning, the electronic lock chimed. The front door swung open.

Damond walked in. The sharp autumn chill clung to his dark wool coat, carrying with it a faint, unmistakable trace of citrus and jasmine. Katelyn's signature perfume.

His tall frame cast a long shadow across the marble entryway. His gray-blue eyes swept over Harlow, who was sitting rigid on the edge of the sofa.

"You sat up all night?" Damond took off his coat, tossing it onto the armchair as he loosened his silk tie. His tone held no warmth, only the slight irritation of a man whose routine was being observed.

Harlow stood up. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her gut, but she kept her spine straight. "Where were you?"

"Handling urgent business for the board." Damond walked over to the dry bar, pouring himself two fingers of scotch without looking at her.

"Business for the board?" Harlow's voice was quiet, but it sliced clean through the quiet room. "Or business for Katelyn?"

Damond's hand froze over the crystal decanter. A drop of amber liquor spilled onto his thumb. He turned around slowly, his gaze turning razor-sharp. "You're tracking my movements now?"

"I didn't have to," Harlow said, her nails digging into her skin. "She answered your private phone last night."

Damond set the glass down on the counter with a dull click. He walked across the room until he stood over her, his expression unreadable.

"Since you already know, there is no reason to drag this out," he said. "Katelyn is back in New York. She suffered severe trauma during her time in Europe. She has post-traumatic stress disorder, and her doctors recommended familiar support. I need to be available for her."

Harlow stared at him. The pain in her chest was so sharp she could barely draw air. "And what does that have to do with our marriage?"

Damond didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a thick document bound in blue cardstock, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table between them.

The title was printed in bold black lettering: No-Fault Divorce and Property Settlement Agreement.

Harlow's breath hitched. She looked down at the white pages, her ears ringing.

"Sign it," Damond said, his voice completely level. "You've handled the past three years well. As compensation, the estate in Long Island and a thirty-million-dollar trust fund will be transferred to your name."

"Three years," Harlow whispered. She thought of the pregnancy test sitting in her purse just ten feet away. "You think three years of my life was just a transaction?"

"What else would it be?" Damond looked at her with cold indifference. "You didn't actually think I would keep a contractual wife in the Montgomery family permanently, did you?"

The words stripped away the last piece of hope she possessed. Harlow swallowed the burning taste of bile in her throat, picked up the Montblanc pen resting beside the folder, and flipped straight to the final page.

"Fine," she said. Her hands did not shake as she signed her name across the dotted line. "I'll sign."

Damond's brow furrowed slightly as he watched her ink the paper without a single tear or plea. A strange, sharp irritation flared in his chest.

Harlow slid the signed folder back toward his side of the table. "You can keep the Long Island house. And keep your thirty million dollars. I don't want your money."

"Harlow, don't be childish," Damond warned, his hand pressing down on the file. "Take the settlement. You have no family assets to fall back on."

"I don't want anything that belongs to you," Harlow said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried absolute finality. "From this moment on, we are nothing more than colleagues at the company until my contract is done."

She turned and walked straight toward the master bedroom. Before she reached the bed, her stomach convulsed violently. She lunged into the bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it.

She dropped to her knees by the toilet, dry-heaving until her ribs ached.

Outside the door, Damond knocked twice, his knuckles heavy against the wood. "Harlow? Is your gastritis acting up again?"

"It's just stomach flu!" Harlow yelled back, her voice raw.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out the printed ultrasound requisition form from the private clinic, and tore it into tiny pieces. She dropped the shreds into the bowl and flushed it down, watching the white paper vanish into the drain.

She stood up, rinsed her mouth, and splashed cold water over her face. When she unlocked the door, she walked past Damond without meeting his eyes and began pulling her suitcases from the top shelf of the closet.

Damond watched her pack with an unsettling tension tightening in his jaw. When she refused to look at him, he spun on his heel and slammed the front door shut behind him.

Harlow woke up on the floor of the spare bedroom surrounded by taped cardboard boxes. A dull ache pulled at her lower abdomen. She placed her palm over the spot, breathing steadily until the cramp faded.

She reached for her phone to check her morning schedule, but an automatic notification from Instagram popped up on her screen.

Julian Beaumont, one of Damond's closest inner-circle friends, had posted a story a few hours ago.

The video was taken inside a private Manhattan dining club during early‑brunch service. In the center of the frame, Damond was leaning down over a table, carefully slicing a piece of filet mignon for Katelyn, who was seated in a designer wheelchair. The look in his eyes was focused, gentle, and utterly devoted.

The caption read: Welcome back, our real queen.

Harlow stared at the screen for three seconds, then swiped the app away. She got up, showered in cold water, and put on a sharp, tailored Armani suit. She applied concealer under her eyes and painted her lips with crimson lipstick.

She was no longer the woman waiting in an empty penthouse. She was the Director of Public Relations for the Montgomery Group.

When she stepped into the corporate headquarters on Madison Avenue, the staff in the lobby went quiet, parting to let her through. She took the executive elevator to the forty-second floor, pushed open the glass doors of her department, and set her bag on the desk.

She hit the intercom. "All department heads in Conference Room C in ten minutes. We are reviewing the fourth-quarter brand ambassador renewals."

Ten minutes later, the conference room was dead silent. Harlow sat at the head of the table, her laser pointer clicking onto the presentation screen.

"Why is Stella Sterling's luxury watch renewal contract still stalled in legal?" Harlow asked, her gaze sweeping over the marketing leads. "Her conversion rate is the highest we've had in three years."

A junior manager shifted in his seat nervously. "Director Miller... the CEO's office issued a hold on that contract this morning. They said we are reviewing a new candidate for the global campaign."

Harlow's hand paused over her tablet. "Without my signature, nobody puts a hold on an active PR campaign."

The frosted glass doors swung open. Damond walked in, flanked by three senior vice presidents. The temperature in the room plummeted.

"I approved the hold," Damond said, stopping right beside her chair.

Harlow stood up slowly, meeting his gray-blue eyes without flinching. "Mr. Montgomery, Stella brings thirty percent of our European retail conversion. Swapping ambassadors right before the winter gala is a massive PR liability."

"Corporate strategy does not require your approval on every talent shift," Damond replied coldly. His eyes flicked to her pale face, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Then the executive office can manage the fallout when the press leaks it," Harlow fired back, closing her folder with a sharp snap.

Damond leaned in, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Harlow, keep your personal feelings out of the boardroom."

"Personal feelings?" Harlow took a half-step back, creating a deliberate distance between them. "Every decision I make protects this company's stock value. Unlike people who let sentiment cloud their judgment."

A collective breath was drawn around the table.

Damond's face darkened. "Meeting adjourned. Harlow, in my office. Now."

"I have work to finish here," Harlow said, not moving an inch. "If you have directives, send an official memo."

Damond stared at her, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Unable to force her compliance in front of twenty executives, he turned and stormed out of the room.

The moment the door closed, Harlow's shoulders dropped. A sharp cramp twisted in her lower abdomen. She gripped the edge of the conference table to keep her knees from buckling.

Her private phone rang in her pocket. It was her obstetrician from NewYork-Presbyterian.

"Ms. Miller," the doctor said, her voice urgent. "Your blood work came back. Your progesterone levels are dangerously low. You have signs of a threatened miscarriage. You need to come to the clinic immediately for an injection."

Harlow's vision blurred. "I'm coming now."

She grabbed her car keys, rushed out to the private elevator bank, and hit the down button.

He had just finished a meeting on the upper floor and intended to head down to the garage.

The silver doors parted. Damond was standing inside alone.